


The Cooling

by sweetxtangerine



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Mulder, Self-Destruction, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetxtangerine/pseuds/sweetxtangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After wrapping up a case, Scully loses Mulder in a freak accident. Then, as she flirts with self-destruction as a coping mechanism, she starts to see him. Leave it to Mulder to haunt her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> -Do you believe in the afterlife, Scully?  
> -I’d settle for a life in this one.

There are so many kinds of mistakes.

There are the mistakes you make with no lasting consequences, where you kick yourself for a minute but then you move on, like when you forget your umbrella in one shop and you go to the next, before realising your blunder and you just manage to catch the rain as you head back and end up drenched.

There are the mistakes you make that you cringe to remember, when you go for a night out and you drink so much that your friend has to take you home and stroke your hair as you cry into your own oblivion and when you try to fall asleep it's like you’re being dragged beneath the ocean waves.

Then there are the mistakes you make that you don’t know you’re making. The mistakes that aren’t mistakes, _really_ , where you go about your daily life and do nothing out of the ordinary and it's all fine and good but then you realise that one mundane decision you made has not only spilt the gasoline but in the same breath lit the match. It's not your fault but you know it would be different without the weight of your fleeting choice and it's just not fair. It burns your throat dry and your stomach churns and you feel so sick and you want to die.

 

* * *

 

They're in small town Michigan.

“I just don’t understand why you wanted to take this case,” Scully calls from the bathroom, peering into the mirror, hair dryer running. “It all seems fairly mundane. No signs of foul play, the autopsy shows they died as a result of cardiac arrest, toxicology came back clean-”

She had been caught in the rain and wanted to look presentable again before they went back out.

“I’m just saying it’s interesting, the fact they both died the same week and grew up in the same town,” Mulder shouts back, over the white noise, “I think there might be more to it. What about the needle marks?”

Two victims had been found dead in their homes from what appeared to be a heart attack. Someone had gotten it into the heads of the police department that there was more to it than met the eye so they contacted the FBI and Mulder took an interest. They had flown out soon after. 

She brushes back her hair and straightens her blouse. “I’m not sure there is, Mulder. They were both at an age where a heart attack isn’t exactly surprising, and the fact that they had both grown up in same town together is just a coincidence.”

“What about the injection sites?” Mulder presses, “That is a bit odd, isn't it?”

Scully frowns. "They both had health issues, Mulder. I mean, Theodore Rose was diabetic--there would have to have been needle marks on his body, he'd need to inject insulin at least once a day. Henry Prince was in hospital shortly before his death, and again, there were no traces of harmful substances in the bodies.”

“Is there anything that could suggest murder, though, Scully?”

She sighs as she steps out of the bathroom, composed. “I suppose their deaths could have been the result of an air embolism-something that causes a blockage of blood supply caused by air bubbles in a body. It induces cardiac arrest and could have been introduced by an injection of air. But who would want these men dead, Mulder? Who would be able to enter their apartments without causing any suspicion and manage to stay completely unnoticed by their neighbours, to then kill these men? Who’d go around killing the seventy-year-old diabetic school friends?”

“I don’t know, Scully.”

 

They have a meeting with a man, Roger Hughes, who asked to see them. He's a short old man with a good head of hair and a nervous twitch and leaning back in a chair in the police station he explains to them that not only did he know the dead men, he thinks he's next.

"Teddy and Henry," Hughes implored, "They both pissed some people off. I did too."

"So you think this is premeditated murder?" Scully asked.

Hughes nodded. "Well, I think it's revenge, yeah." He took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. 

"What for?" Mulder asked, waving the smoke away from his face, "Why would someone want to kill them, and you?"

"Not someone," Hughes wagged a finger at them, "Something."

Scully gave Mulder a look.

"If you help us understand the motive," she said, "We'll be able to protect you."

With a sigh he started. ”We owed some bad people a debt. Not money, but information," He told them, "And as a result of the information that we withheld, a man died. Now, this man, told us, with his dying breath, that he was gonna kill each of us."

"So you think that he has someone working with him out there, exacting his revenge?" Scully aksed.

"No," Hughes shook his head solemnly, "I think that he's out there exacting his revenge."

Scully raises her eyebrows, and does her best not to roll her eyes. "So what you're saying, Mr Hughes, is that a man you once knew is haunting your friends to death?"

Hughes slapped his hand on the table in approval. "That's it!" 

 

After a week of investigation, the case is closed. There were no ghosts or ghouls involved, just the grandchild of the man who had died as a result of the withheld information, acting on his grandfather's last wish to take his former rivals down.

Hughes is satisfied, as is the force, and Mulder and Scully have a flight booked back to DC. It’s 8pm and they’re in the car on the way to the airport when Scully gets a call. Their flight has been cancelled, she's told, and either they can catch a red-eye or fly out tomorrow.

"Do you mind if we head out tomorrow, Mulder?" She asks, after recounting the call, "I really don’t feel like spending my night on a plane."

He shrugs. "Fine with me."

They turn the car around and head back to the roadside motel. 

“Shall I check us back in?” Scully asks.

“You do that, I’ll grab our bags.”

She heads towards the main entrance.

“Hey, I’m gonna get a soda. Would you mind getting me some ice while I check us in?” Scully asks.

“Sure thing.” He nods.

As Scully waits for someone to check them in, Mulder hoists their suitcases out of the trunk and then leaves them by the door before heading back out.

The ice machine sits in an alcove outdoors along the roadside, next to another vending machine just a minute away from reception, and Mulder walks to it. It’s nearly dark. The sky is a deep azure and dark clouds are moving in. The world around him is illuminated only by street lamps and the air is heavy.

Scully hands her credit card to the young woman working the desk. Two rooms, two keys. She asks to break a twenty and then turns to feed a creased dollar bill into the vending machine. To her annoyance it rejects the bill twice, before whirring a mechanical groan of acceptance, and an iced tea clunks down. 

She bends down to grab it, but all of a sudden there’s a shout and an unearthly CRASH outside, and the sound of tires skidding. Scully runs out before even having a chance to grab the iced tea.

Tires on the asphalt screech out of sight, already obscured by the night and oncoming storm. She’s sure she can get the police force on it; something that made that loud a crash must be in pretty bad shape.

Then she sees it.

Mulder, crumpled on the ground. She can see blood and it looks black in the light of the moon and the street lamps. He’s at an odd angle and shouts to the young woman to call an ambulance. 

The woman does, and it’s good she does because when Scully sees him her mind goes foggy and she can’t breathe. 

His legs are mangled and the fabric and flesh is torn. What was a spatter of blood is now a pool and he’s losing too much. He’s folded forward she knows there must be internal bleeding and some broken ribs, and oh god she hopes he’s not paralysed but whoever crashed into him must have smashed him against the brick wall. She kneels down by him and he splutters a little and groans, barely registering her presence.

He’s drenched in sweat and humidity and blood and then he looks at her with what little consciousness he has left and smiles, and then he coughs, and blood bubbles out the corners of his mouth and Scully holds his face in her hands.

He blinks again and splutters and a little spray of blood splatters across Scully’s face and he looks almost apologetic before his head starts to loll and Scully screams, “Mulder, Mulder stay with me!”

He had never listened to her, though, had he? 

 

* * *

 

She can’t wash off the blood.

When the paramedics arrive on scene they pronounce him dead almost instantly. She begs and pleads for them to try something, to try anything, but there’s nothing they can do. If the roles were reversed, she would have told them the same. One paramedic tries to pry her away from the body but have to get two more to hold her back because she clocked the first one in the jaw when they tried to take him away.

It’s a burst of mania first that takes hold of her. Screaming and crying and hitting everything around her she allows herself to lose control in a way that she never has before; her skin feels numb and her throat hurts and there’s a faint ringing in her ears. She’s not sure where she is or how much time has elapsed before she snaps back to where she started a week ago. Still heaving for breath, she's standing in front of that same mirror from that day when she got caught in the rain, the start of their last case. It couldn't be the same, though; the mirror is smashed and in it the reflections offer scores of her reflection staring, wide-eyed, back at her, and there’s a sting on her knuckles and she's covered in blood. Her blouse is soaked and her hands are hot and sticky.

She starts washing her hands, watches the red flow down the drain. With each sob she jerks and shakes. It won’t come off fast enough, though, so it becomes a frenzy, and she starts to scrub. Harder and faster, trying to rid herself of this unholy mark of the death of someone she loves so much. The blood seems to keep coming and she starts to feel a muted sting. It's her own blood now, she realises, and she looks up at the dozens of versions of herself staring back and realises she must have punched the mirror because there are gashes on her hands and the blood is dripping down.

"It's not fair," she whispers, and again, "It's not fair."

That's all she can say, all she knows, all she can think. That a man who had saved so many lives, a man who had saved her life so many times could die from something so offensively mundane.

 

There are so many things left unsaid; things that she had assumed they had their whole lives left to say. How he was her best friend, her constant in a small spinning world and now her world spun faster and more wicked and she can’t quite believe he’s actually gone.


	2. Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She remembered the sting of the needle, the anger, the upset that had caused her actions, and usually when she thought of it she felt embarrassed. Now, though, she felt hungry. She felt a besetting need to feel that pain again, a new pain separate from the ache in her heart. It's all-consuming, the desire to feel a sharpness through the numb. To feel her blood run. She doesn't just want to flirt with self-destruction; she wants to be devoured by it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -You don't believe in ghosts?  
> -That surprises you?  
> -Well... Yeah. I thought everybody believed in ghosts.

Three days elapse. Scully sits across the desk from Skinner. His face is ashen, brow knit in concern. The light from the window behind him darkens the bags under his eyes, emphasises the lines of his face.

“I think, under the circumstances, it would be best if you took some personal time off.”

She doesn’t say anything. A distant thought of protest flickers in the back of her mind; she thinks of insisting she continue immediately, in the hopes of submerging herself in her work again, but she doesn’t. She feels numb. 

She nods.

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“May I go, sir?” She asks.

He looks as if he’s about to say something, but nods, and she stands up.

“Agent Scully,” he starts, as she gets to the door. She spins around, face blank. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened to Agent Mulder.”

She doesn’t say anything, just purses her lips in a way that she means to express gratitude. It comes out as a grimace.

“He was a good agent,” Skinner continues, “He saved so many lives, uncovered so much. It’s just-,”

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. 

“It’s just not the way he should have gone.” Scully finishes for him. 

Skinner nods and leans back into his chair. She closes the door on her way out.

 

* * *

 

The hardest part is clearing out Mulder’s apartment. 

It’s an absolute mess. There are papers everywhere, and dishes left around the room. His sofa is littered with take-away boxes, and she almost laughs at the thought of his mother finding the tapes he had left scattered around the VCR.

It’s heartbreaking sorting through his things. She knew the possibility, of course, that they could die on the job, hell, he'd been considered dead before, but she never really thought she would be the one who would have to take care of his things. Her head is fog, though, and she does her best to keep it that way. She tries not to feel. It's her coping mechanism, staying dull, and for the most part it works. 

She gets to his dresser and starts bagging his clothes for donation and it's then that she starts to feel too much. The suits, the ties, clothing is so personal; an outward representation of his identity; of how he wanted to be perceived. She feels so empty, and pulls out one of his t-shirts, an old grey thing, and buries her face in it. She breathes it in and takes in the smell. Washing powder and musk, and mostly just Mulder. Her eyes start to well up.

Her head starts spinning. She's never going to see him again, never going to smell him, or hold him, or be held by him. She would never laugh with him again. The overwhelming realisation of love, of loss sends her mind into chaos. The magnetic pull that she had grown so accustomed to, a heat that radiated from him; she would never feel that again. 

She turns, hoping to focus on something else, but sees a pile of sunflower seeds on his end table and it's too much. Body trembling, she crumples to the floor and weeps.

 

* * *

 

She had only once recently flirted with self-destruction. The reminder of it was inked beneath her skin, a jewelled serpent, and it served as a warning to her.

She remembered the sting of the needle, the anger, the upset that had caused her actions, and usually when she thought of it she felt embarrassed. Now, though, she felt hungry. She felt a besetting need to feel that pain again, a new pain separate from the ache in her heart. It's all-consuming, the desire to feel a sharpness through the numb. To feel her blood run. She doesn't just want to flirt with self-destruction; she wants to be devoured by it.

She applies make-up and slips on a little red dress, and she pours a finger of whiskey which she swallows in one gulp. She savours the burn.

It's raining when she steps outside and she dashes into the taxi, trying to avoid the downpour. She almost wishes she could just stand there and be bathed by the rainwater, feel the cold on her skin, but it won't be enough.

The bar is sleazy and shabby and heavy with smoke, and it savours it as it catches in her lungs. It's hazy and suffocating and intoxicating and she orders a whiskey and before the hour has passed she's ordered five more and soon the ache of her heart turns into a burn of her throat and the hurt is numbed just a little. As she starts on her sixth drink she sees a man in the mirror behind the bar. The dark hair, the suit and tie, the familiar smile--her stomach flips and her heart skips a beat and she whips around and then, as quickly as her hopes had risen, her heart sinks. There is a man there, but not who she had, beyond all reason, hoped, and he slips onto the stool next to her. He smiles at her and orders his drink, and she stares at him a little too long.

He's handsome, probably about her age, with dark hair and a dark coat and a five o'clock shadow, and he's wearing a suit and tie and his eyes look like Mulder's, but he's not Mulder, because Mulder is dead.

That doesn't mean he won't do, though. 

She realises then, at that moment, all of the things that were left unsaid; the feelings that she had never come to terms with because there was no immediate need. She had assumed they had all the time in the world, and he was her constant and she thought he always would be, regardless of whether they worked together or slept together, because the intimacy was always there, and it just wasn't  _fair_  that he was gone because she truly and absolutely loved him. 

She had never dwelled on the thoughts of their attraction. She was aware of it, but it always struck her as just another small aspect of their relationship. They were together almost every day. She thrived on his electricity and his wit and his passion and the few times it had even crossed her mind that it might not just be love, that she might be  _in love,_  she had quickly pushed those thoughts away because if she acknowledged that she might feel something romantic for him then it might be real, and everything would be complicated and inconvenient and honestly, it didn't matter  _how_  she was with him because it was so easy to just  _be_  with him.

His one in five billion, he had called her. 

Her one in five billion was dead. 

The man in the suit turns to her and leans over. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

This was what she was here for.

She batted her eyelashes and smiled. "I would like that."

The man smiled, too. 

She starts on her seventh and the room starts to spin nicely, and the man starts chatting her up.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" He asks, teeth gleaming. 

_He did not just say that_ , Scully thought. It was so contrived.But then she imagines Mulder saying it and suddenly it's endearing, flirtatious. She likes it.

"Just unwinding after a long day," she says.

He nods, and she decides to cut to the chase.

"I find you very attractive," she says, and notices absently that her speech is a little slurred.

He looks a little surprised that she's gotten there so quickly, but he swiftly returns his sleazy smile. "You're not bad, yourself, Red," he says.

"Would you like to find somewhere a little more private?" she asks, and swallows the last of her whiskey and savours the burn, and that's all it takes. 

A moment later he's leading her through the smoke and the crowd and they're outside in the alley beside the bar.

He slams her up against the hard brick wall, rough and unconstrained, and her stomach flips. Normally the loss of power would make her uncomfortable, but right now it scares her and she likes it, she savours it, because it's better than feeling empty. He leans towards her and runs his tongue across her bottom lip and bites down, and she kisses him back, their tongues and teeth clashing and she tastes alcohol on his breath and blood on her teeth and he grinds against her, already hard.

She's never slept with a stranger before, at least not someone whose name she doesn't even know. It makes it easier, though.

His hands are all over her. He rubs her nipples through the red dress and the stimulation is electric. Instant arousal hits her, and she moans. He laughs, appreciative of her response, and plays with her breasts a little more. He feels her down, drawing fingertips along her stomach, along her hips, and then down her thigh. It excites her and she surrenders to his touch. He slips a hand up her skirt and the excitement heightens her senses and she feels a wet heat between her legs, and his fingers start stroking her, rubbing her through her lace panties. She wants to be fucked, wants that taste of impulsive self-destruction, and maybe wants to be hurt a little.

"Take these off," he says, tugging at the elastic of her underwear. She slips them off, and feels they're damp. She's wet. It feels ridiculous, but she puts them in her purse.

She leans back against the wall and feels the alcohol in her blood, the loss of balance, and revels in it as she stumbles a little. With one hand holding her waist, steadying her, he gets back to it. It's slow at first, the way he strokes her. She knows that anyone could see them if she walks by, and that somehow makes it better, and she's slick, ready, and she moans as his thumb rubs circles around her clit. Then he sticks two fingers inside her and it surprises her a little, the sudden penetration, and he finger fucks her, a fast rhythm that she wasn't expecting. It's rough and imprecise, and it feels amazing. Between the thrusts of his fingers and the rub of his thumb she melts into it, moaning, her arousal building. He adds a third and wiggles them a little, finding the right angle, and despite the alcohol numbing her reactions she feels close and then-

"What are you doing, Scully?" a voice asks. And it can't be who it sounds like, but she's shaken, because whoever it is at least knows her name. The thought of being seen like this is embarrassing, her face turns red.

The man seems unperturbed. She looks around. "Did you hear that?" Scully asks sharply, and he looks around too for a moment, shakes his head and shrugs. He starts unzipping his trousers now with the hand that had been gripping her waist, and she must have imagined the voice, so she carries on.

"Touch me," he says.

She slides her hand through the opening of his trousers and starts rubbing his cock through his boxers. He's fairly average in size but very hard and he groans loudly as she slips his length out from the opening of his underwear. He's velvet smooth and heavy in her hand, and she strokes him, thumb flicking over the head, slicking it with beads of his precum.

She wants this dirty and rough, she decides, and suddenly sinks down and takes his cock in her mouth. He gasps, not expecting it, but not unpleased. A hand combs through her hair, pulling slightly. A fleeting thought crosses her mind,  _is this the sort of thing Mulder would watch on his tapes?_ , and the notion excites her, coaxes her enthusiasm. She swirls her tongue around the head before gently grazing her teeth along the underside of his length. He moans and she does it again. She presses his cock to the side of her teeth and takes other his hand and rubs it against her mouth, so he can feel himself through her cheek. He moans, and then pulls back a little, and she murmurs, "I want you to fuck me."

It's a split second later and he's lifted her from her knees and slammed her back against he wall, and he's grinding against her now, cock out and slick. 

He starts fumbling in his pocket and pulls out a condom, tears the packet and rolls it on. It's good he does, she thinks fleetingly, because she honestly hadn't thought to ask.

He slips his hand back between her legs, but instead of stroking her again, he hitches her skirt around her hips and pushes her thighs apart. The alley is dark and there is only moonlight on their faces, and she looks into his eyes and imagines it's Mulder. She relaxes herself. He lowers himself a little and then she can feel his cock pressing against her. He pushes up into her and she shouts out, his hands around her waist, lifting her up against the brick as she throws her arms around his neck and he starts thrusting a fast rhythm.

It was good but it wasn't enough. The dizziness had slowed and she needed more sensation. The hollow was returning. She wanted pain. She guides one of his hands to her throat and he looks confused, but then closes his fingers a little. She moans in approval and gasps a little. Lack of oxygen makes her head spin, and black spots start obscuring her vision. It heightens the sensation, brings the fog back to her brain and makes her body more sensitive. She closes her eyes.

"You feel so good," he says, but she doesn't really listen.

"Scully you need to breathe!" she hears, whispered urgently in her ear. Mulder's voice. Her eyes shoot open and she pushes the man back, and he takes his fingers off of her throat immediately, startled. She whips her head around to see who said that, who spoke to her, but she sees nothing. No one.

"Are you okay?" He asks

She ignores the question. "Did you hear that?" She asks again, more frantically.

He shrugs again and shakes his head. "I think you're a bit on edge, darling," he says, "Just relax."

And she does, because she sees nothing. 

"I want you to put your hand around my throat," she says, and he does again.

It's just enough, his fast, deep thrusts as her vision becomes dotted again. She's close now, she can feel it.

"Please," she moans, "Please make me come."

He thrusts faster, still, and with the hand not around her throat he rubs firm circles around her clit. Her vision is blurring now, and she knows she's nearly there, both to orgasm and to asphyxiation. 

Her vision is gone, and then she sees Mulder in her mind's eye, imagines it's him and that's all she needs; she comes with a shout, her body convulsing, waves of pleasure washing over her and he takes his hand off of her throat. With a few erratic thrusts and a satisfied grunt, she feels his balls tighten and pulse, and she knows he has come too. Her vision ebbs back slowly, the dim light of the alley filling her vision, the man in front of her leaning towards her, kissing her gently, and sliding out of her.

It was a release, and it was good, but already she could feel the beginning of the emptiness creep back. He discards the condom and zips up his pants while she readjusts her dress, smoothing the fabric flat with her palms, suddenly embarrassed. She can feel her face turning red, not just from the asphyxiation.  _  
_

"Um, thank you," the man says again, and she can tell he feels embarrassed too.

"My pleasure," she murmurs. And she mostly means it. 

"I'm gonna-," he says, and with that he leaves her, alone, still leaned up against the wall. 

Her fingers ghost over where his hand had been on her neck. It was almost enough. She closes her eyes for a moment, again, and wonders if her throat will bruise. She opens her eyes again and gasps, unbelieving. A pearlescent figure stood before her.

"What the hell was that, Scully?!" Mulder shouts, angry and upset, his voice so beautiful and familiar but not quite whole, and she wants to believe it's him, she so desperately does, and reaches out to touch him, but she saw his crumpled body and she saw the blood and saw him getting bagged up and sent off to the morgue, and then she sees the bins in the alleyway  _through_  him, and her hand reaching for his shoulder and slides right through.

Oxygen hadn't fully caught up to her, and now this? It's too much. The last word on her lips is "Mulder," and she collapses to the ground.

"Shit." Mulder sighs.


	3. Hollow talking and hollow girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mulder's standing there, slouched a little, leaning against her counter, grinning unashamedly . He's beautiful and gossamer and completely intangible and he can't possibly be real. Her heart skips a beat, breaks a little."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Skinner is worried about Scully, and honestly, Scully is too.

As Scully opens her eyes, the brightness of her surroundings overwhelm her. Clean, white light encompasses her, and there’s a familiar smell of cleaning chemicals. She can hear the steady beep of a heat monitor near her. Her head is woozy. Lasting effects from the whiskey?

Slowly, the brightness fades and the room comes into focus, and she realises the sensation of connection. An IV is running from her arm.

There’s a presence, as well, someone’s next to her. And someone's at the foot of her bed. 

Her vision clears and Mulder is standing there, calm and somewhat translucent, frowning. She blinks twice, hard, trying to comprehend who she's seeing, how she's seeing him.

"Mulder?" she asks, and realises her throat is sore and raw as his name comes out a croak. As surely as he had stood there, he quickly fades and a voice from beside her speaks.

"No," he coughs, almost embarrassed, "It's Skinner."

She turns her head and sees him sat there. He's still in a suit, though somewhat dishevelled, his jacket crumpled, his tie loose. He looks so exhausted, so aged, and it surprises her. He looks like he had just woken.

"Mulder's... Gone, remember? I'm glad you're awake." He sighs, and frowns.

She nods slowly, and looks back to the foot of her bed. Nothing. Maybe she dreamed him?

"What happened?" She asks, thickly, as she turns back to Skinner. 

There's a glint of fire in his eyes, but he sits up and straightens his jacket and leans forward. "I can't say I'm exactly sure, Agent Scully," he says, and she's almost amused that he's still speaking to her so professionally, even as she's in a hospital bed.

He continues. "Someone found you unconscious in an alleyway next to a bar last night around 3am."

She feels herself flush, and the events of last night flash rapidly in her mind. 

"Your blood alcohol content was point two-seven, and there were, uh, signs of you having been choked. The IV in your arm," He gestures loosely, "It's helping rehydrate you. Though I'm guessing you'll be feeling one hell of a hangover soon."

She turns a deeper shade of red, and nods. She know's what's coming next. 

"Do you remember anything from last night?" He asks, "Do you know who might have done this to you? There were-" He cuts off abruptly, and swallows, hard. "There are indications that you may have been, uh, sexually assaulted." 

"No-" She says, and it comes out louder than she had expected. Skinner stops mid-sentence. He's almost startled at the suddenness of her reaction.

"No," she says again, "It, uh, it was all consensual." 

He blinks for a moment.

"I'm not sure if you're aware," he says, "But there are bruises around your neck and you can make out where his hands were-" 

"I know," she says.

"Then do you know who did this to you? What do you remember about him?" He presses, and his volume rises.

"No, Skinner," she starts, "It was _all_ consensual."

"What do you mean?" his voice is even, calculated.

She closes her eyes. "I mean, I met a guy in a bar last night, had a few drinks, and one thing led to another."

"But the bruises?"

"I asked him to choke me."

She can see the cogs turning in his head, and the click. He exhales sharply.

He lowers his voice. It's almost a whisper, but it's vicious. "What the  _hell_ were you thinking Dana?"

She snorts. "We're using first names, now, are we?", and she's startled by the contempt in her voice.

He matches her tone. "Having _sex_ with a  _stranger_  outside a _bar_  and having him  _choke_ you?"

"I know, it sounds bad-"

"You're damn right it does!" His voice was no longer a dangerous whisper, he was shouting, "You need to take care of yourself, Scully! This is not what Mulder would've wanted!"

She stares at him. "Yeah, well Mulder's dead." And it comes out cold, empty. 

He quiets, realising he's dangerously close to crossing a line. He draws back.

"If all you say is true," Skinner says, "Why were you found unconscious?"

She thinks for a moment, not sure what exactly to say. 

"I think I had too much to drink," She ignores Skinner's snort, "And that heightened a physical response to my emotional state. That, plus, uh, lack of oxygen, I got woozy and passed out."

He sighs. 

She thinks of the ghost she had seen. The ghost she can't _possibly_ have seen.

Skinner doesn't know what else to say. They're quiet, the silence in the room punctuated only with the beep of the heart monitor.

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later, when she's discharged, Skinner insists on driving her home. It's odd, the familiarity between them. It had always been professional, stayed professional, bar a few favours, and for Skinner to be so adamant on making sure she gets home safely--it feels different. Maybe he realises this would have been Mulder's role. Maybe he's trying to fill some sort of gap.

"Are you gonna be okay?" He says, stern but soft, as she's about to step out of his car.

"I promise not to take home any more strangers."

He doesn't laugh. "Please don't drink tonight."

"I won't." She promises. Her hangover had hit her several hours ago. She knew better than that, and she decided she might heed her instincts.

"Call me if you need me, okay?" He says, and she's struck again by the familiarity. 

She nods and steps out. She can feel him watching her as she pulls out her keys and fumbles with the lock. It's not until she closes the door that she hears the engine start up again.

She treads up to her room and takes her shoes off. Then her dress. She had changed back into it when she left, so she wasn't wearing the hospital gown, but it was dirty and tight and all she wants is to be clean and naked. She draws a bath and peers into her mirror. There are bags underneath her eyes, and her bruises are a beautiful violet, like flowers blossoming across her throat. She swallows. She looks like hell.

The tub is filled, and she dips a toe in. Wonderful, warm. She sinks into the bath and it consumes her, the heat lessening her aches and pains. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and slides down under the surface, wetting her hair, being entirely taken by the water. After a moment, though, it's too much and the heat on her face is overwhelming. She pulls herself up quickly and breaks the surface, her hair whipping across her face, spraying the walls.

"Hey, Scully."

She immediately wraps an arm around her breasts, covering herself, and whips around, sees him there. Mulder's standing there, slouched a little, leaning against her counter, grinning unashamedly . He's beautiful and gossamer and completely intangible and he can't possibly be real. Her heart skips a beat, breaks a little.

She speaks slowly. "What are you?"

"It's me, Scully."

"No," she says, "You're dead. Am I hallucinating?"

He shakes he head and almost laughs, "No, you're not hallucinating."

"If I were hallucinating, that's what a hallucination might say."

"I'm dead, Scully," he says, "But I'm still, sort of, here?"

She blinks.

"I remember being hit by that car, I remember dying, I just- I keep finding myself back."

"You're dead."

"Yeah, I am."

"What the hell is going on?"

"I think I'm a ghost."

Scully snorts and rolls her eyes.

"Of course," she says, "You come to me in visions, telling me you're a  _ghost_."

He frowns, "Always the skeptic, aren't you? Come on, Scully, after everything you've seen!"

"I don't believe you. This is just emotional trauma," she says, almost frantic, "And maybe the painkillers."

"I mean, I'm flattered that you think your heartbreak is revealing to you a manifestation of myself, but I'm really here, Scully."

"No you're not. And I don't know why I'm conversing with a hallucination."

"Come on, Scully, it's me!"

She looks at him, through him, and doesn't say anything.

"What, are you giving me the silent treatment?"

She stays quiet. This is the last thing she needs right now, visions of a ghost. Mulder would be so pleased.

"Please, I need you to believe me- At least just talk to me," he says.

It's too much--the hangover, the night she had had, her conversation with Skinner, her dead partner stood in front of her. She starts to cry. "No, Mulder, you're dead! You're not here and I can't bear to see you, to imagine you, because you're gone! This isn't real! I love you and you're dead and I'm shouting at a figment of my imagination! Just stop, please."

He sinks down, slowly, and looks sad. And then inspired.

"I can prove it to you, Scully. I can prove I'm here."


	4. But the beauty of his death will carry on so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t really know how I’m back, or why. And I remember dying. I remember you telling me to stay with you, and then everything just seemed to stop. I realised I was dead but there was nothing—it wasn’t darkness or lightness or anything. It was just nothing. It was both eternal and momentary, somehow simultaneously, and the progression of time as we know it doesn't seem to exist where I was. It’s like I was a flicker of consciousness on a plane wasn’t built for a consciousness, and then, after a while, it just spat me back out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's just short and sweet.
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and lovely feedback, it's hugely appreciated <3

The clock has just struck midnight and the dim light of her apartment only darkens the appearance of the bruises around her throat. Skinner sits in an armchair and wears a bemused expression, though looks at her kindly as if he was worried she might break. Mulder's ghost tries to lean on Skinner's shoulder, but he slips right through, topples, and quickly stands back up, slouching awkwardly in an attempt at a smooth recovery.

Hair still wet, wearing pyjamas, Scully paces, heart pounding. She can't believe she agreed to this, agreed to this with a  _hallucination_ no less.

"Can I ask what I'm doing here, Agent Scully?" Skinner asks, finally. "You didn't call me over for a late-night game of poker, did you?"

"No, sir, I didn't," Scully stops pacing and turns to him. "To be honest, I think I'm going mad."

Skinner leans forward, concern spreading across his face.

"I need you to help determine if there's something wrong with me, or if I'm somehow experiencing the impossible."

She ignores Mulder's loud, exasperated sigh, but then he says, "That is so you, Scully, I present myself to you in ghostly form and you still don't believe in the possibility of ghosts."

She snaps back, "Quiet!" And when Skinner looks at her, dumbfounded, she shakes her head and apologises. "Not you, sir."

"Sorry?" He asks, concerned.

"I know I can trust you, sir," She continues, "And I know you'll ensure that I have access to the best care if I need to check myself into a psychiatric facility."

"Scully?"

"I need to try something first, though. Did you bring the playing cards, sir?"

A brief pause, and he pulls a box of cards from the pocket of his long, black coat. 

"Can you tell me what's going on?" He asks.

She starts pacing again.

"I suppose it started yesterday night--I started seeing things. Hallucinations, I thought, just a couple of times. Right before I passed out, too."

"What hallucinations-"

"I'm not a hallucination!" Mulder calls.

Scully ignores him. "And then again today I saw him again, but this time he stayed."

"He?" 

She stands still abruptly and looks Skinner in the eye. 

"I've been seeing Mulder's ghost."

He's silent for a moment.

"Scully, are you serious?" He asks, the lines of his face seeming to deepen.

She nods. "I'm afraid so, sir."

Silence again.

"And you want me to help determine if what your seeing is real or not?"

"That's what the cards are for."

"Are you seeing Mulder right now?" He asks carefully.

"Damn right she is!" Mulder says, and Scully narrows her eyes at what must appear as empty air to Skinner.

"Yes, sir, I am," she replies to Skinner.

"So, the cards?"

"That was Mulder's idea," she says, "Or, rather, the apparition of the Mulder that I seem to be seeing."

He hands the cards to her and she cuts the deck, but her hands tremble and several slip to the floor. She gathers them up and turns them back face down. 

"Would you shuffle?" She asks, holding the deck in a shaking, outstretched hand.

Skinner takes them from her gently and nods. He divides the deck and expertly dovetails them, the soft sound of the shuffle as his thumbs release the cards into the stack somehow comforting, grounding. After they've been sorted, he looks up to her.

"What now?" He asks.

"Ok, have him stand across from you so he can hold the cards behind his back," Mulder says.

"Can you come towards me a little bit?" She asks, "I need you to pick three cards and hold them behind your back with the face of the card pointing behind you."

"Do you want me to look at them first?" He asks.

She shrugs. "I doubt it matters. It's a test, not a card trick."

He pulls three cards and holds them behind his back.

"Okay," she says, "Now Mulder is going to tell me what they are."  


Mulder bends over and looks at the cards.

"Three of clubs, eight of spades, and king of hearts," He says.

Scully closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, because this was the moment of truth.

"Three of clubs, eight of spades, and king of hearts," She repeats.

Skinner looks at the cards. "How the hell?"

"Was he right?" she asks.

Skinner nods, slowly.

"I told you I was real!" Mulder shouts, gleefully.

"What if it's just a fluke," She asks him, and turns to Skinner again.

"Would you do it one more time?" She asks.

He pulls five cards this time.

Mulder reads them, Scully repeats them, and Skinner is astonished. They keep going. It's bizarre and unbelievable but somehow fitting.

"So he's standing right there behind me?" Skinner asks, after she repeats the fifth hand correctly.

"Yes he is," Scully says, "Oh, and he says the tag on your coat is sticking out."

Skinner fumbles at the back of his neck and feels the tag. He flips it back down.

Mulder is gloating in the corner, a grinning from ear to ear.

"I don't think you're crazy, Scully, and honestly, it kind of makes sense. Of course something weird like this would happen with Mulder." Skinner says, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. Only a moment's touch, but it's reassuring. And then he turns to where he thinks Mulder might be, actually facing about three feet to the left of him, and says, "So how does it feel to be an X-File, Mulder?"

Mulder laughs, "It's about damn time."

 

* * *

 

It's three in the morning and Scully is curled up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate in hand. Little comforts. Mulder sits at the foot of her bed, legs folded, smiling back at her.

Skinner left a couple of hours ago with the request that she take care of herself, and call him if she needs anything, and a badly aimed ‘goodbye’ towards Mulder. Scully is impressed that he had taken less convincing than she had. Grateful, too, that he was willing to listen.

Now it's just Mulder and Scully. They talk of nothing and of everything, and though they had had only a few days apart since his death, it was such a relief.

“So what’s it like, being a ghost?” She asks.

He thinks about it for a moment. “It’s strange, you know?”

She shakes her head and laughs a little. "I can't say that I do."

He smiles. “I don’t really know how I’m back, or why. And I remember dying. I remember you telling me to stay with you, and then everything just seemed to stop. I realised I was dead but there was nothing—it wasn’t darkness or lightness or anything. It was just nothing. It was both eternal and momentary, somehow simultaneously, and the progression of time as we know it doesn't seem to exist where I was. It’s like I was a flicker of consciousness on a plane wasn’t built for a consciousness, and then, after a while, it just spat me back out.

"It wasn't a sensation, really, it was more an overwhelming lack of sensation, but that void just seemed to expel me. Suddenly there was consciousness around me and I could see real things."

"What was the first thing you saw?" Scully asked.

"You," Mulder said, "I saw you."

Scully smiled.

"After seeing only nothingness, Scully," He shook his head, "Opening my eyes and seeing you?"

"What was it like? The sensation of visual stimuli after being taken by oblivion?"

He smiled. "Overwhelming. Your hair was fire, your skin was snow, and your freckles were all the stars in the sky."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on tumblr with the url "thefoodispeople"! Stop by and say hi :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again, Valentine


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